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Still Hungry: Hal Rubenstein
modeactivate, with style
hyde & seek Hyde Park Roller Magic has been a go-to favorite for area roller-skating a cionados, especially on their “Throwback Adult SK8 Night,” Wednesdays.
mode still hungry
Dining out In The fabulous ‘Un-Hamptons’
Why we’re in no danger of becoming anything like them. By Hal Rubenstein
t’s become as
Ipredictable as swallows returning to Capistrano, or Liam Neeson nding yet another reason to beat up two dozen Middle Eastern males 25 years his junior. Before the start of summer, any number of oh-soknowing urban based publications such as The New York Times, The Financial Times or Business Insider pose the same question with the intensity of Oedipus facing the riddle of the Sphinx: “Is the Hudson
Valley and the Berkshires turning into the
Hamptons?” In fact, during the pandemic, such speculation was as ubiquitous as Dr.
Deborah Birx’s table-for-four sized scarves.
OK, I admit that when we rst bought a home in Columbia County 18 years ago, most of our friends asked, “Where are you going? What the hell’s up there?” Back then, evidently, Millbrook was the end of civilization; since once past its exit on the
Taconic, we were about the only car on the road. Well, no more. What those annual articles do have right is the increasingly gushing geyser-like appeal of this region, and how homes for sale in Athens, Accord or Austerlitz—when you can nd one— remain on the market for about as long as it takes to ip four burgers on the grill.
But only someone who has just sprinted through a three-day tour of duty between
Kingston and Queechy Lake would ever ascribe credibility to such a foolish act of comparison geography, and it’s not just because good luck nding the nearest beach or clam shack in the Red Rock. Because while we’re no longer the only car on the Taconic at Exit 89, most homes outside of small-town centers are o en separated by acres, not feet. It takes three-quarters of an hour to go a mileand-a-half in the Hamptons because Route 27 is the only option. If it takes equally as long to get to your friend’s home or Lowe’s up here, it’s because everything and/or everyone is about 20 miles away. Nothing is ever round the corner.
But that same lack of proximity is also why there’s no anointed gotta-beseen “scene” in these parts. True, local restaurants and bars are much busier than you might assume (since everyone, everywhere was denied breaking bread with friends for so long), yet dining out generates no equivalent to the quickwe-have-to-plan-a-month-ahead-andshit-do-you-have-the-private-number? Hamptonian panic su ered trying to nab a table at Tutto Il Giorno, Le Bilbouquet or 75 Main. And when you remove the nerve-wracking jockeying for position that necessitates a quick run into CVS for some Prilosec, what you gain is the opportunity to enjoy both some really swell and o en superior food up in these hills, but also the evident charm that’s served along with it. It’s amazing how much more fun it is to dine out when you can not only relax your shoulders, but not have to waste energy looking over them.
FEAST & FLORET
The prickly but sagacious restaurateur Keith McNally (Odeon, Balthazar, Pastis) claims that your attitude towards an eatery is determined within the three minutes of your arrival, before you’ve ordered either an appetizer or a cocktail. No wonder Feast & Floret has quickly become for so many of us our happy place. As soon as you walk in, a hey-glad-you’re-here vitality breezes through the room that immediately sets you at ease. It’s also a striking contrast to the reclaimed carriage house’s former tenant, Zak Pelaccio’s Fish & Game, which deservedly won a James Beard Award as best restaurant in the Northeast in 2016. Pelaccio’s room and fare was intense, almost brooding. While meals were o en memorable, the atmosphere insisted you focus more on your dinner plate than your dining partners. With the subtlest of shi s of decor, lighting, seating, server training and a wise and unexpectedly sharp menu glad award edit, Pelaccio’s Feast & Floret in former partner Hudson brims with
a hey-glad-you’re-
Jason Denton, has here vitality. brightened and lightened the mood. Dining at Feast & Floret is fun, and yet the kitchen—which is run by Denton though he demurs chef status—isn’t fooling around
Every restaurant these days that doesn’t have a drive-thru is now farm-to-table, so that isn’t a selling point. But smashing dry rub pork ribs with a crust that crackles and fall o the bone meat sweetened by a walnut-amaro-honey reduction are. It’s the kind of trademark dish you really should share, but you really don’t want to. (The menu changes seasonally, but thankfully ribs seem to be a xture.) Other dishes
are precisely composed, but don’t feel fussed over: fennel brightened by a splash of citrus while contrasted with olives; velvety burrata contrasted with a sumptuously smoky sourdough; a tart, invigorating cluster of clams braced by the briny sweetness of guanciale and tomato jam; an excellent pass around atbread, gently slathered with honey and ricotta; four noteworthy pastas, especially a brighter take on Bolognese and a black squid ink intriguingly in amed by chili infused pork.
In addition to those super ribs, choose a tender chili- ecked (the kitchen isn’t afraid of the spice rack) octopus on a bed of potatoes and radicchio. The steelhead trout is a house favorite and Denton’s chicken Milanese may be one of the few times I didn’t wish I was eating veal prepared the same way. My two favorite desserts are a budino to make a chocoholic sigh, and olive oil cake framed by clementines (ask for a scoop of gelato).
In case you were wondering about the restaurant’s name, there’s a orist shop in the middle of the dining room. The assortment is lovely, but to be honest, I’ve never bought owers there, but if I did, I’d be sorely tempted to present the bouquet to Denton, as a thank you. In the last seven months, I’ve eaten at Feast & Floret on my anniversary, my birthday and on Valentine’s Day. But I’d be just as eager to eat there because it’s Thursday.
FEAST & FLORET
13 So. 3rd Street, Hudson 518 822 1500 feastand oret.com
FRANKIE’S RISTORANTE BAR ITALIANO
At Feast & Floret, they o er an appetizer that’s a graceful trio of nearly weightless, pecorino- ecked meatballs. You ain’t getting those at Frankie’s. But then, no one comes to this legendary spot near Tanglewood to eat light. Frankie’s is the kind of restaurant that used to make Manhattan’s Little Italy a favorite downtown destination, but now barely exists away from Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. This is unapologetic, two sted Italian American cuisine, where
seeing red is a good thing, and tradition is something to be proud of rather history that needs reinvention.
Truth be told, Frankie’s kitchen is serving up cuisine strikingly similar to the Major Food Group’s brilliantly marketed Carbone, minus the neon sign, at about one-third the tab. (Think I’m exaggerating? Veal parmigiana at Carbone is $89. At Frankie’s, it’s $30). Considering how tough it is to snare a table on Thompson Street, even with the soaring price of gas, it might be cheaper and just as satisfying to shlep up to Lenox, MA.
First things rst. Frankie’s has a supremely excellent bartender. Julia strikes the perfect tone for her domain: friendly without being in your face, as attuned to the menu as her family history, and damn! does she make a killer Old Fashioned, James Bond worthy martini or any of the house specialty drinks such as the blood orange margarita. In fact, the woman is so congenial, the last time we ate there, we were delighted to sit at her bar.
Proving my point, when Julia says order the fried zucchini, a dish that long ago degenerated at New York’s San Gennaro festival into a pile of pasty, stringy slop, I was stunned to be rewarded with a gloriously tangled cloud of crisp, perfectly salted, gilded green streamers that crackle with each ravenous crunch. The challenge with cooking from a playbook that’s so straightforward is that it leaves no room for error. Carpaccio needs to be expertly shaved, cabochon ruby red, topped by tart fronds arugula and thin layers of just barely bitter parmesan. On a sweet beet and goat cheese salad, the walnuts should be candied, but not Cracker Jack saccharine, and you don’t want orange dressing. You want the bracing acidity of blood oranges. Artichokes should bear the grill marks of a deep char, the contrast of toasted almonds and the brightness of an acid laced vinaigrette. Frankie’s succeeds on all counts.
The Bolognese featured is grandma’s recipe and good a cook as my grandma was, she was great at Matzoh balls, not this wonderfully hearty red sauce. Even more than parmigiana, I prefer Frankie’s veal sautéed with the heat of slightly wince-inducing roasted red peppers and artichoke hearts in a white wine sauce where there’s no mistaking the profusion of garlic. I wish Frankie’s didn’t make signature famous lasagna with spinach noodles, since they’ve never been a personal favorite, but the house is rm about no substitutions, believing a menu is a roster what a house does best, not a suggestion of what you might like to assemble via whim. So, I managed to su er through a branzino grilled exactly as I hoped it would be and a ridiculously generous house seafood Fra diavolo whose sauce I sopped up with half a loaf of bread.
Words of caution, however. When you make a reservation, try to avoid either arriving or leaving around the same time as the start and end of a concert at Tanglewood. Should you make the
